


In Memoriam

by nimrodcracker



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Gen, Implied Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 04:36:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2759840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimrodcracker/pseuds/nimrodcracker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Memories were but snippets of the past; formless and intangible, and they couldn't hurt her. No, they couldn't hurt her, not at all.</p><p>At least, that's what Hawke kept telling herself.</p><p>Spoilers for All That Remains and Legacy DLC</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Memoriam

She had this favourite spot in the docks, hidden in a nook far from the hubbub and the noise where'd she spend her nights admiring the night sky and glittering lights. How the lamplight of ships seemingly bobbed in time with the waves, how the moonlight shone off the bronzed skin of the Twins.

She used to sit on the steps and sink her bare feet into the gloriously cold depths of the harbour, whittling away those sleepless nights with Bethany when Gamlen's roof leaked, foul water dripping from the rafters and soaking the straw mats they slept on.

But that was before the Circle; before the templars marched in to drag Bethany away, before she realised the dwarven gold in her coffers meant _nothing_. Nothing but lumps of shiny metal that couldn't bring back what was forcibly taken.

Some days, sitting alone by the pier after the sun went down, she idly wondered if Bethany was doing the same, gazing from behind some barred-in window of the Gallows, thinking about those nights when they were poor but free. When the most of their worries was about putting food on their table, and not the political ramifications of their actions. Kirkwall had given them a new lease of life, but as the years passed, she couldn't shake off the thought: was this the life the Ferelden refugee she was years ago had envisioned?

She had company, sometimes, an extra blade and another pair of eyes to watch their backs; Bethany before the templars, Fenris before _that_ night. Simple companionship and whispered words of conversation between them, before she'd stumble back home hours before dawn to an earful from Mother, if she wasn't lucky.

Her mother only kicked up a fuss about her dalliances when they'd moved into the Amell Estate, on how ladies weren't supposed to pass their nights with the riffraff of the undercity in backwater bars or on ledges by the docks. Leandra knew the futility of browbeating her with disapproving gazes, but those looks never stopped coming. That was her way of caring, she knew - fussing over her children, hugging them tight in fear of losing them permanently when she loosens her vice.

Now, the Champion of Kirkwall preferred the companionship of solitude; a desire even her companions would struggle to match with the jester that held the city in awe.

They say the brightest of smiles hide the darkest of thoughts, and just once, _once_ \- she wished it was a huge load of piss.

It didn't seem any different from the days of before, when she found herself on the cold, stone steps of the pier that night. Her feet had brought her to the calming lull of waves crashing against the harbour and the gratifying chill of the sea breeze, after another day of blood on her hands and the growing blur between right from wrong. She had a headache, dull and pounding and _endless_ , and she didn't think she'd be back in the estate by morning.

But it didn't matter now, did it?

No matter how long she disappeared from the Estate this time, there wasn't going to be any more whingeing to come home to, not when the last thing Mother said to her was a whispered ' _I'm proud of you_.'

The blood had dribbled down her arms at the Foundry, and no amount of washing would scrape off the stickiness that stubbornly clung to her skin.

* * *

In time, she would give up fighting the urge to lay still and spend sleepless nights in a house that didn't feel like home anymore; not when her blood sang in her veins as raiders lay broken on stone floors, not when the first thing she saw up the stairs was Mother's - _empty -_ room.

_Gamlen refused. **Kept** refusing despite her sincere offers to let him stay in the mansion. _

What was a mansion if it only shadows stalked the space within?

 _Fine, she **didn’t**_ _reveal how she feared the accusatory silence of empty hallways._

She knew Bodahn was puzzled when she dragged her mattress and covers into the study mere days later. Her favourite spot to unwind was in the library; past the fireplace and the squishy armchair, so _of course_ it'd be a perfect place to sleep from now on. 

 _How could she, when bottling her feelings had_ _**always** been her way? _

But all he did was to let loose worried glances, and that she was thankful for.

* * *

The gauntlets clattered to the floor with a sound that rang in her ears, but the warmth that seeped into her numb fingers more than made up for it.

She felt it, the exhaustion, like a cloak draped around her shoulders in a loving embrace. The Vinmark excursion took more out of her than she'd ever let slip - but her companions thought it stopped at her aching bones and bruised muscles.

 _It was fine_ , she thought. Let them all believe in Hawke the Champion, during a time when Kirkwall was poised to tear itself from within, not Hawke the orphan - alone and buried under the life she'd broken bones for to piece together. A life for herself, and for those who couldn't appreciate it anymore.

She kept reminding her tired self that if she shut her eyes hard enough, she'd sense Mother in her usual spot by the fire, like nothing had changed. And when her armor was caked in filth with the weight of steel pauldrons bearing down on her drooping shoulders, she’d like to think that it was Mother’s voice in the back of her mind. Talking to her about Father, talking like how they used to...before.

She opened her eyes then - thinking, hoping, _searching_ \- but saw nothing save the upholstery and heraldry of the Noble House of Amell. So bright and proud in another time, now muted in the half-light.

Like a slip of a tongue, the shift in the wind, she _finally_ knew. Knew that Bethany left her in an empty house, knew that the only warmth she felt came from the dancing flames, and not a person who _used_ to be - living, breathing reminders of an existence.

The warmth may have reached the tips of her fingers, but it never did warm the ends of her toes.

In the quiet of the night, she finally allowed the tears flow freely down her gaunt cheeks, grieving bitterly for someone she'd never missed more.


End file.
